An Evolving Resolution
by sarapals with past50
Summary: A short story for CSI Forever Online January challenge for a story on "Resolutions". GSR, of course, set in current time. Only two chapters, and all fluff!
1. Chapter 1

**An Evolving Resolution **

In the early hours of a cloudless dawn, a quick vibration rippled under the floor tiles of the small sparsely furnished bedroom of the adobe brick structure.

Startled, Gil Grissom lifted his head from his rumpled bed and, in a just-wakened state, rubbed his eyes and swung his feet off the bed. When a few minutes passed quietly, he pushed off the bed and walked, with a somewhat wobbly gait, across the small room to the window.

The night before, in what was a somewhat cheerless celebration of Christmas day, the six men working on the project had drank too much of a local liquor and had eaten too little of the food they had prepared and Gil Grissom felt the after-effects in every joint in his body along with the pounding ache in his head.

He pushed aside the fabric covering the window and peered into the beginning of dawn at the place he had called "home" for nearly a year. Where he stood was at the end of a row of small rooms at a right angle to a larger, newer structure that had been built after their digging had found a mass grave over a year ago. A year ago…he stopped his thoughts—which came often when he had indulged in late night drinking—from remembering anything prior to what he was doing now.

Yet, his hand went to his chest—the soft new pajamas he wore had come in one of the two boxes he had gotten from Las Vegas. His mother had sent toothpaste, toiletries, and a water filter—things he had requested with a list. No list had been sent for the second box which contained the pajamas, several new shirts, two pairs of pants, a pair of sandals of a name brand he preferred, two books by a favorite author, a box of candy, and, in a smaller box, a thumb drive with a note. Photos, she had written in the short note. He had not looked at them.

He picked up the small flash drive and held it in the palm of his hand, almost smiling as he looked at it. Sara—the only woman he would ever love; she never forgot a special occasion—and try as he might, he could not forget her—her fragrance, her touch, her soft brown eyes…

Jerking his thoughts away from things he did not want to contemplate, he watched as two men walked across a well-worn path to the larger building—both appeared animated—or agitated. Grissom turned back, changed his pajamas for pants, pulled another shirt over the blue top and slipped his feet into the new sandals. He dropped the thumb drive into his pocket. A few minutes later, he caught up with the two men.

"Morning, Gil. Notice anything?" asked Ron Daniels. Ron, at six and a half feet with a wild head of red hair, had been living in this part of the world for nearly two decades; there was little he missed from a distant rain storm to subtle trouble among workers.

Grissom frowned. The second man, much younger, turned in a circle, a puzzled look on his face.

The sky was clear; a gentle breeze stirred the distant trees.

"No sound." This came from Grissom. "Where are the birds? Monkeys?"

"Did you feel the shake?" Ron asked. "The birds felt it too," he broke off and started walking. "Let's get coffee and hope that's all we feel today!"

A local woman usually cooked meals for the group, but the men had insisted she take several days to celebrate Christmas with her family. This would be the third day they had 'cooked' and all three laughed as they heated beans with a bit of pork and sat down with hot, bitter coffee for breakfast, promising tomorrow would be a feast when Issette returned to cook. Within minutes, the rest of the group showed up and scraped beans onto a plate, laughing amicability as they joined the others in complaining about the food—or lack of food.

As they all pitched in to wash plates, cups, and utensils, they talked of plans for the day; the early morning shake that had woken three of them seemed to be forgotten. With a flick of his wrist, Grissom tossed several forks into a metal cup.

As if his quick movement had set a giant machine in motion, the forks and spoons rattled an alarming tattoo inside the cup.

In the next second, a ferocious tremor rolled beneath their feet. Three of the men grabbed the edge of the sturdy table as everything in the kitchen swayed in a wide arch. Seconds later another vicious jolt shot through the building and everyone was moving. The walls seemed to dance and in the distance, a deep rumble sounded. Pots fell from the rack, chairs slid across the floor, small utensils scattered, cans of food flew off shelves; a cabinet crashed onto the floor.

"Earthquake!" One of the men shouted, "and a big one!"

The floor pitched and the six men scrambled for the exit as water sprayed from the sink.

Outside, they could hear a roar as the earth split open. In seconds the rooms where the men slept were collapsing in piles of debris. With mouths open, they seemed to turn in a slow moving arc as trees fell, glass in windows exploded, and the building where they had eaten breakfast just minutes before heaved and pitched before the roof cracked and plunged to the ground.

The men ran, scrambling backwards, moving away from the building, the dust and wreckage.

Just as suddenly as the tremors had started, they stopped.

Grissom had no idea how long the men remained in the clearing; all were covered with dust, trembling from what they had experienced. All made a nervous jerk as a tree broke in the distance.

The unnatural quiet around them made one believe they were the last living beings in this part of the world. The men looked at each other, at the destruction around them, the enormity of the devastating damage, and remained standing in the only area free of rubble and fallen trees.

Finally, one of the young men, Adam, made a sound causing everyone to look at him.

"I don't have my shoes," he said.

Grissom asked, "Where're your shoes?"

Adam shook his head, saying "I don't know—in the kitchen—I think I ran out of them."

His words put movement in every man's legs as several headed to the destroyed building. Grissom pointed to the broken pile of what had been the brick walls of the individual rooms.

"I left my old shoes by the door last night—we might be able to find them in the dust."

There were few bricks left—most crumbling as the three men used their hands to shovel aside the debris. Grissom tunneled a hand under a piece of wood he thought had held the door in place and brought out one shoe. He grinned. It took several more attempts before he located its mate and by the time Adam had the shoes on his feet, the other three men had returned from the newer building.

By the looks on their faces, it was apparent to the others that destruction of that building had been as absolute and complete as the older adobe structure. The new building had been built of concrete blocks and aluminum panels with a tile roof and big windows making its destruction a maze of sharp metal, broken chunks and splintered glass. All of it flattened to a precarious mass.

The six men stood quietly for a long time.

Finally, Ron spoke. "As bad as it is here, it's probably worse there." The "there" of his sentence was the small village located half a mile from their project. He turned in a slow circle, shaking his head. "Let's see if we can dig out a few things—any—any suggestions?"

Grissom realized they were in a state of shock—still stunned by the sudden obliteration of their surroundings. He raked a hand through his hair and stirred up a cloud of dust; several laughed as they did the same.

One said, "All of you look like zombies!"

Their laughter seemed to spur action and a few minutes later, they were digging into the debris that had been their bedrooms.

In the dust, they recovered grimy clothes, a few personal items, several backpacks, and bedding; except for one, laptops and tablets were cracked or crushed. Several cell phones were found, dusted off, and powered up only to get a network congestion beeping signal. Another hour passed as they searched for tools they used and tried to find keys to the truck before two of the men decided they could 'hot-wire' the ignition and get the vehicle started so they could make their way to the local village.

A fifty pound bag of beans had miraculously survived intact; they loaded it into the truck and started to the village. In route, one of the young men managed to send a text message and passed the phone to the next man. By the time the truck stopped in the village, every man except Grissom and Ron Daniels had sent an "I'm okay" message to family members. When Grissom had been handed the phone, he had passed it on to the young man beside him without attempting to send a message.

The sun was barely above the horizon but the village—or what was left of it—was filled with people in the streets. Their houses were no longer safe even if walls were standing; none were undamaged. Small children ran to the truck, smiling and laughing as they greeted men they knew were friends. A few wore bandages over recent cuts but seemed otherwise unaffected.

Everyone else, women, men, teenagers, were working to retrieve any household items they could reach in the rubble of what had once been homes. The six men jumped from the truck and started working. Quickly, they learned of a man with a broken leg. He was sitting in the back of a truck, patiently waiting. Another man, unable to find his wife, cried as a line of men scraped away debris from the ruins of his home.

"We heard her," one of the men said, "right after we started digging!"

Ron, Grissom, and Adam joined this group. A few minutes later, Grissom thought he heard the rhythmic words of a prayer. Others had heard it too and hands moved faster. A few minutes later, the woman was found, battered, bleeding, but alive; most of her body was underneath a table but one foot appeared to be crushed.

Gently, with two dozen people assisting, she was lifted and moved to the truck. Women wrapped her in blankets but she refused to let go of her husband's hand. Two small children climbed into the truck to be with her.

A quick appraisal of the village population determined the woman and the man with the broken leg were the only ones who needed to be taken to the area hospital. On a good day, the drive was two hours. Food and water was packed into the truck which sputtered several times before the engine fired and started.

Soon after the truck left, the group turned back to the second task—finding food in the ruins of what had been their homes. Someone had set up a wood fire and Grissom chuckled as he noticed the chicken pieces being placed on the grill; those chickens had been alive at sunrise, he thought. Another fire heated a pot of water.

Ron added the sack of beans to the growing pile of food; women had already begun the work of kneading and patting out tortillas.

Over several hours, there had been several aftershocks when everyone stopped working and then resumed their search for anything useful or salvageable. Grissom was surprised at how many items became shared property—someone had a blanket and gave the next one to another family, cooking pots, buckets, clothing, and a table were all deemed useful for everyone rather than one.

Hours later, with a message passed from one to another, everyone took a break and ate. Grissom leaned against the truck and rolled a tortilla filled with beans. He watched as kids found parents, husbands found wives, grandmothers were provided plates of food. Dogs touched familiar knees and were rewarded with a scrap of food.

It was miraculous that no one died, only two people were seriously hurt, he thought; surprising that property became unimportant in this situation, and simply amazing how people depended on each other.

He took a long swallow from the bottle of warm beer someone had handed him. Several yards away from him, a young couple with three small children, an older woman, and an older man shared the simple meal. They were laughing, cuddling the kids, quietly talking in such a warm and comfortable fashion that Grissom looked away, feeling he was an intruder in a private moment.

As he looked around, Grissom marveled at the extent progress had been made in clearing rubble and finding items needed for surviving what was likely to be weeks without proper shelter—or what counted as a house in this part of the world. Some of the women had already created tents using a clothesline and splintered pieces of furniture.

His eyes returned to the family and he wondered about their future. At that moment, the small girl laughed, a delighted sound of happiness. The young mother's eyes met Grissom's and for a few seconds, he held her gaze.

Soft brown eyes, smiling at him…

Grissom had managed to return a smile. Over several days, he managed to sleep a few hours. He searched through rubble, stacked bricks, and ate when food was provided. He found one of the boxes sent to him for Christmas and, as he twisted the little flash drive between his fingers, he made a decision. He had not talked much to anyone until he told Ron Daniels he was returning to Vegas. He did not explain why, except to say it "was time".

Three days later, Grissom walked through McCarran Airport and reached the arrivals exit before he had given a thought to his next decision. It was easy—he hailed a cab and gave an address.

When he stepped out of the cab, he realized how beautiful the house was. Sara had chosen well—a home that matched her uniqueness. Then realized he had not seen it, not as Sara's home—had not been inside—for over a year. He had left her the minute he'd gotten the call from Ron Daniels, left her to deal with unpacking, to handle his own mother's disappointment; months later, he had not returned as she had to cope with Hank's illness and death. And he had stayed away when Brass had called him about a man named Basderic.

He sighed heavily and hefted the strap of his bag to his shoulder. It had crossed his mind he might not be welcomed at this address, but he had not traveled this far to tiptoe away. Nervously, his hand rested on his chest for several seconds before he rang the doorbell.

Sara hesitated with her eye on the solid door's peephole, her eyes riveted on Gil Grissom. He wore one of the shirts she had sent for Christmas. From her angle, a pained expression played across his features as he shifted his bag, hunched his shoulders, and looked around at every place but the door.

Intently, she watched her erstwhile lover for a long moment. His face was tanned, but around his eyes were shadows, perhaps apprehension. She swallowed and took a deep breath, making an effort to hide her own emotions about his sudden appearance.

Quickly, she opened the door and managed to catch his startled expression; she hoped hers was expressionless. She stepped back at the moment he stepped forward.

"You returned," she murmured. His gaze never left her face.

"I'd like to talk, Sara."

Sara waved her hand toward the living room and followed him. Her mind raced as she prepared to deliver a speech that had been taking shape in her mind for months.

"I'll get something to drink," Sara said and quickly disappeared into the kitchen. She had not waited to ask what he wanted to drink so she took two bottles of water from the refrigerator and returned to find Grissom looking at framed photographs she had on shelves.

Grissom turned and took the bottle she held. "You've—you have made the place beautiful." He glanced at the bottle and quickly removed the top before returning his eyes to hers. "I'm sorry, Sara—very sorry. I—I want to fix us." His eyes dropped again as his hand caught hers. "I only hope I'm not too late."

Sara's fingers clinched into a fist around his fingers; she said nothing.

"I am an imperfect man, Sara, as well as one who loves you very much." He paused and took a long breath. "For months, I've been the fool, investing every minute in a project that—that really doesn't mean much in the way we should live our lives." He placed the bottle of water on a table and moved both hands to her shoulders.

Sara saw tears welling in his eyes.

"A few days ago—the day after Christmas—an earthquake destroyed everything around us. Total destruction," softly, he chuckled. "And what every person wanted was who they loved—not one person cared about possessions. Not one person mentioned the project that had consumed us for months. Not one person." His hands curled around her neck.

Sara said nothing as she leaned her forehead to his, moving easily together.

Grissom's lips grazed her cheek as he pulled her close, saying, "I do love you, Sara. I promise I'll change." Softly, he chuckled, "I'll make it my new year's resolution, you'll see."

Hearing his words caused Sara to laugh and find her voice. She said, "Don't change too much, Gil."

And then she kissed him. Or he kissed her.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you for reading!_

**An Evolving Resolution**

**Chapter 2**

On Sara's days off—which were rare and far between—she ate, she slept, she played with the most recent addition to her life; she hadn't realized how tired she was and the moment she lay down, she had gone to sleep for hours. As she filled the tea kettle, she realized she seldom missed the hurried noise of work; her house was peaceful. Her music played softly in the background and, she thought, for the first time in a long time, she didn't keep herself absorbed in work as a way to block out everything else in her life.

As she wandered through her house, she thought of her mother—finally, housed in a facility that worked with the illnesses that had stripped Laura Sidle of dignity for decades. Sara rearranged a small figurine that had been a gift from Betty Grissom—she and Betty would never be close friends, but they were linked by one man and that connection kept them tied. She sighed as she wiped invisible dust from the figure.

Then she picked up a photograph. Gil Grissom. Another sigh as she thought about the man she had married—was still married to even though she had not seen him in person in months. Another wipe of her finger to remove any possible dust caused her to smile. Since the day he had answered her question, he had always been a part of her—and, heaven forbid, if she never saw him again, she knew her last thought this side of the grave would be of him.

Softly, she laughed. He had no idea of how much he meant to her. She had moved on—not from her love of her husband—that would always be with her. She had spent money on the house, decorations and furnishings that he had never seen. Occasionally, she would go out with her co-workers. She had gotten a puppy—a small fuzzy mutt with a fantastic energy level. And she was content—as much as a woman could be when one's husband preferred to dig in the earth thousands of miles away from his wife.

They had both been disappointed when none of their grants were approved—year after year. Yet, those who received grants begged, solicited, sent letters of request by the dozen for Grissom to join a project in China, in Guatemala, in Tunisia, in Peru—projects that had no use for a physics major turned crime scene investigator, so Sara had remained in Vegas, and made a home—for both of them, because she was convinced that one day he would return—to her, to the home she had made.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts, in moving around the room and handling objects that actually made her smile, that gave her comfort for what had been, that she was startled by the sound of the door bell ringing. Puzzled as to who her visitor could be, she stuck her eye to the peephole—and nearly fainted.

For ten—fifteen—twenty minutes, nothing in her seemed to be functioning, not her legs, or mind, or heart. Her husband stood at her door. She welcomed him home with a bottle of water. He was home—he wanted to stay. And they had kissed—kissed for a long time.

It—the kissing—would have gone on for much longer except for the coalescence of several events. The tea kettle whistled with such ferocity that it sounded like a fire alarm; the sudden high-pitched howling of a young puppy demanded attention and interrupted Grissom's thought process and Sara's phone chirped some irritating chime noise.

"I—ah—tea—Bruno, the puppy," Sara stammered, hesitating as she took a half-step away from him.

As light as a feather's touch, his thumb slid along her lip. Somewhat awkward, yet with a smile, he said, "I'll get the kettle."

The phone was chirping again with a message so Sara grabbed it from the table and headed toward a gate locked across a doorway where the howling white puppy barked several times before she reached over and picked him up. Turning, she found Grissom so near he had to spread his arms to accommodate the puppy in Sara's arms.

"Bruno?" Grissom's eyebrows shot upward as his finger scratched the top of the dog's curly head.

"Gil, meet Bruno—Bruno meet Gil." Sara smiled as she fumbled with her phone while holding the puppy. "Your mother left a message."

A lopsided grin quickly crossed Grissom's face. "She doesn't know I'm here." Easily, he took the puppy and began murmuring nonsense words to it.

Sara stepped around him, put a yellow plastic bowl on the floor, and scooped a small amount of puppy chow into it. She watched as her long estranged husband nuzzled the now happy dog before he placed the animal on the floor.

Standing up, he said, "He's as cute as the photo." For several long moments, they watched the puppy eat. Finally, in a low voice, Grissom's face grew solemn. "I am so sorry, Sara."

She rotated so her back was to him; so she would not have to look into his soft blue eyes, taking longer than necessary to place the scoop back in the dog food container. Moving a few steps away, Sara got two cups from the cabinet and busied herself with tea for several minutes.

"I want to stay—if you will let me."

His statement was so gentle, so tenderly whispered that Sara felt her heart knocking in her chest. Her hand clenched into a fist. She blinked back tears before raising her eyes to meet his.

Grissom actually winced when he saw the glitter in her eyes and the downward tug at the corners of her mouth. "Don't," he whispered, unsure of what he did not want to see or hear. "You—you have always been—been sweet and kind—don't—don't become bitter because of me—of what I've done—what I've caused."

Sara's eyes filled with tears, threatening to spill down her cheeks. Her clenched fist remained on the countertop; fingers from her right hand swiped across her face before she held her hand, fingers widespread, toward him in the universal signal to stop as she found her voice—and the words she had silently practiced for months.

"All the years, Gil, I've loved you so long I don't remember what it's like not to love you—even when I've tried to forget. I'm no saint—just an ordinary person who wants a man to love me—to need me—to want me—as I want and need him."

A sob escaped, but she managed to rein it in before it became a full-blown cry. "You are not a bad man—you are a wonderful person, kind, considerate, and caring—when you want to be. When it suits your purpose! But—but—you are like a big moth! You are bashing yourself against a flame until you fall—burned and dead—when here—in your home—there is a cool place, a warm bed, and food and love—all of it is here. Yet you keep flying into that flame, Gil!" She gulped in air, angry that her hand was shaking, angry that her voice trembled.

She continued, "I want you here—yes, I want you! That's all I've ever wanted!" Her voice softened, slowed, "but I can't—I can't bear the thought of you leaving again."

Grissom did not know what to say. For several minutes, they stared at each other until Sara turned away and pushed one of the cups in his direction.

Gently, he said, "I think of you, Sara. I do love you—you are the most beautiful person in my life—a treasure I—I—you are never out of my thoughts." When she did not look at him, he continued, "I'm here to stay if you'll let me."

She picked up one of the cups, leaned over and picked up the dog. "Bruno needs to go outside."

Grissom followed her to doors that opened onto a small patio. In his absence, she had removed the old broken concrete and replaced it with large flagstones interspaced with small gravel. Along the edges, rectangles of grass had been put in—for the dog.

The patio, surrounded on three sides by the house, opened to the back yard, but what Grissom noticed was the colorful art Sara had placed on the walls, the pots of blooming flowers, making the patio appear larger. As they drank the cooling tea in silence, watching the dog explore the patio as he hiked a leg over every blade of grass, the quietness stretched until the tea was finished.

Grissom shifted his gaze to Sara while she kept hers on the antics of the white puppy who had wandered into the yard but kept looking back at Sara as if seeking her approval or her companionship. And, Grissom noticed, Sara kept her hands across the table, near her body, giving him no opportunity to touch her.

Grissom had realized years ago that he over analyzed every aspect of his relationship with Sara. He had never understood obsession or the ferocious pull of another human until Sara. No one had ever made him feel so aware or alive. She fascinated him; she aroused him unbearably—she made him laugh. As he watched, she smiled, never glancing in his direction.

With a graceful simplicity of movement he remembered so well, Sara stood. He watched as she took several deep breaths before extending her hand in his direction.

She looked at him and smiled, "Our little four-legged mutt has yet to learn to come when called."

Much later, Grissom would realize that was the moment he knew she was welcoming him home.

Now, he took her hand and they walked into the back yard. With a wordless exclamation, he saw that Sara's work inside had also extended to the outside. He knew no hired gardener had torn out decades old shrubs and stunted bushes and replaced them with the tumbles of color and profusion of wildflowers. In the center of the yard was a circular bench so one could see all corners of the garden with a slight shift in position. She had not tried to tame the desert by bringing in lush grass and tropical plants; she had brought the best of the desert to her yard.

As they reached the bench, the sublime scent of sun-heated flowers reached Grissom's nose; the delicate fluttering wings of butterflies—dozens of them—quivered across the plants.

Sara, her voice a stroke of velvet on his ears, said, "I planted it with flowers most likely to attract them."

"A butterfly garden," Grissom whispered as he came to stand beside her. "You have Painted Ladies—_Vanessa cardui_—and Blues on wild pea!" He stepped nearer the fence. "And milkweed—ah!" His laughter came easily, "Monarchs already!"

"I—I think the monarchs stay year-round."

Another surprised sound erupted from Grissom. "You are growing lavender!"

Sara nodded. "I've got it on a waste water drip system—water from the washer every two days or so. And the butterflies love it."

Grissom's eyes fell on Sara's sunlight glossed hair, on the delicate curve of her neck, and, suddenly, he was aware of an intense coiling within his own body. He realized the butterflies could wait.

"Sara?"

She looked at him with dark eyes glowing with sparks of amber. Years ago, he had realized her eyes were brown—not black—because of those golden flames. Easily, she smiled as she said:

"You need to get unpacked—a shower? And I'll fix something to eat." She scooped up the dog with one arm and took his hand with the other, twinning her fingers with his.

Later, after one of the best tasting meals he had eaten in months, Grissom offered to clean the kitchen but his assistance was gently refused.

"Take a book to the bedroom," she said. "I know you are exhausted."

He wasn't, but he did as told.

Fifteen minutes later, he heard the shower, confusing him for a second until he remembered the master bath was connected to the laundry room and kitchen. And he hoped it did not mean that Sara was planning to sleep elsewhere.

When the door opened, he felt a rush of pure happiness at the sight of Sara's face. Her expression was unreadable but her eyes glowed with warmth. She was beautiful, he thought. Instead of the tee-shirt and soft pants he remembered her wearing to bed, she had put on a white open-front shirt. Smiling, he realized it was his shirt.

With a look of amusement, Sara walked to him. Her gaze kept his as her finger touched his bottom lip before moving her long slim fingers along his jaw and around his neck. Their lips met and suddenly he felt as if his blood was flowing white hot. She tasted clean and sweet, delicious; the feel of her body caused him to tremble. As she nestled closer, he felt her shiver.

"Sara," his voice was husky. "Is this too soon? I—I—we…"

She answered with a low, rumbling laugh. She began to explore his neck, his face, his shoulders with her fingers while keeping her mouth pressed to his.

The smell of her skin intoxicated him with every breath. He pressed her body to his as he kissed her—and suddenly knew he could never kiss her enough. Slowly, deeply, he kissed her as she returned the same. One of them groaned with pleasure.

Moving his hands, he stroked his palm along her spine. At some point, they were on the bed, and the aching excitement penetrated every inch of his body. And Sara responded as he gathered her to his chest. What was once familiar returned as his hands played over her soft skin; for Sara, her husband's touch ignited waves of intense relief followed by a deeper, more pleasurable ache.

Grissom whispered words of endearment, of intimate adoration, and of lust; his hands aroused layer upon layer of sensation until Sara parted her legs in invitation. He pushed, entered her slowly, and, in seconds, he was above her, inside her, and nothing could stop the deep thrusts, nudging into her sex with tenderness.

Too quickly, there was a shattering burst of orgasm as Sara's body clenched around him in throbbing contractions, easily milking a climax from him until a deep growl came from his throat.

Panting, Grissom lowered his body over hers, his mouth against the nape of her neck, his penis still buried inside her.

Sara licked her swollen lips and smiled as she mumbled, "And how long will you stay?"

He chuckled; his hand cupped her butt and then slid to her thigh. "I could tell you about the dreams I've had about your magnificent legs, but dreams pale in comparison to reality."

"You dreamed about my legs?"

His hand moved to her inner thigh. "Oh, yes—wrapped around me—gripping me." His fingers moved upward with gentle strokes and movements to the wet folds between her legs. His finger was inside her; another flirted skillfully with the sensitive nub pulsating with a pressure that sent heat dancing from her toes to her brain.

Darkening blue eyes held her gaze, taking in the sight of her passion, and the realization of how focused he was on her caused the ecstasy to bloom until she shuddered—hard, with deep-seated spasms surging through her.

As she floated up from her second orgasm, feeling spent and drained, Sara opened drowsy eyes to her husband's pleased smile. His body was no longer attached to hers, but his hand remained closed over the triangle at the apex of her legs.

Leaning to her lips, he kissed her—several times—before saying, "I can't remember why I left."

He was sure Sara giggled—but hidden somewhere was a groan.

"I'm serious—I'm here to stay—with you. There is nothing on earth more precious to me than you—your smile, your laugh—no greater pleasure than holding you. Several days ago, I realized that—that—I did not want to live without you. You are my only hope for happiness. I promise—I am determined," he paused to kiss Sara—and smiled as the quiet wisp of a light snore broke the peaceful silence.

The End

_A/N: Thank you for reading. A special thanks to all of you who review our stories. Have a happy day!_


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